


A different Kane Chronicle

by jonogender



Category: The Kane Chronicles - Rick Riordan
Genre: AU, Age Swap, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2018-10-12 13:31:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10491957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonogender/pseuds/jonogender
Summary: "Consider: Age/role-swap Kane chronicles AUAnd yes this au does include swapped childhood guardians, love interests, and godly patrons"So I'm gonna do a few chapters from each if the books for this au





	1. Dad is a bad liar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hatnhousejacket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatnhousejacket/gifts).



> Based on this
> 
> http://hatnhousejacket.tumblr.com/post/158560564358/consider-agerole-swap-kane-chronicles-au-and
> 
>  

Hullo. I'm Sadie Kane, if you hear a nerd in the background that's my baby brother, Carter. Listen we don't have a lot of time but go to a school with a locker and the combination is 13/32/33. If you're the right person you'll know what that means. Don't keep it longer than a week and hide it for the next person. (See Carter, I explained it you little shit.) Now on with the story! 

It all started in London, when my dad might have blew up the British Museum. My dad is not a terrorist by the way, okay? He’s a really fucking good guy and a good dad. 

Now let’s start off with a little about me. My whole is in a suitcase. No joke. Since I was eight years old, my dad and I have traveled the world. My dad’s an archaeologist, so his work takes him all over. Mostly we go to Egypt, that’s his main thing. If you’re a nerd go to a book place, find a book about Egypt, there’s a pretty good chance it was written by Dr. Julius Kane. You want to know how Egyptians pulled the brains out of mummies, or cursed King Tut’s tomb? My dad is your man. Of course, there are other reasons my dad moved around so much, but I didn’t know his secret back then.

I didn’t go to normal school. My dad homeschooled me, if you can call it “home” schooling when you don’t have a home, maybe you could call it travel schooling. (World schooling? Hotel schooling?) He sort of taught me whatever he thought was important, so I learned a lot about Egypt and basketball stats and my dad’s favorite musicians. Fun stuff, I know. I am so glad I never really had to take a math class. Now many people think because I didn’t go to school and traveled, I don’t have friends. I always play with local kids in the towns we stay in. My penpals are cool and I have internet friends. 

Anyway, my dad told me to keep all my junk in a single suitcase that fits in an airplane’s overhead compartment. My dad packed the same way, except he was allowed an extra workbag for his archaeology tools. So unfair, right? I am fourteen, I should be able to have two bag. He had a rule number one: I was not allowed to look in his workbag. Of course I broke it a few times but it’s not like there was anything cool in it, I think he just wanted me not to break anything. 

My dad also tells me to present myself better, but listen if it is 32C outside I am going to wear a fucking t shirt. Through I guess I do understand why he wants me to, but it’s easier for me not to dress well.

It happened on Christmas Eve. We were in London for visitation day with my brother, Carter the nerd. (Hush, I can call you a nerd if I want. You are one.)

My dad is only allowed two days a year with him, one in the summer and one in the winter. All because me and Carter’s shit grandparents hate him. (Oh hush Carter, I can and will say they’re shit. You’re just too nice to say it aloud.) After our mom died, her parents had this big court battle with Dad. After six lawyers, two fistfights (which were kinda awesome), and a near fatal attack with a spatula (I don’t have the time to explain it), they won the right to keep Carter with them in London. They tried to keep me too but even though I was only eight the judge asked me what I wanted and I had wanted to be with my dad. Might have pulled a ‘I lost my mom. Don’t take me away from my dad’ card. I really don’t know why I ended up with Dad and Carter didn’t. So Carter was raised as a British kid while I traveled with my dad. We only saw him once a year and I was mostly fine with that. (Yes Carter, you’re my baby brother of course I wanted to see you a little more. But only a little. Now shut- duh, I’m getting to that part.)

Now anywho, we had just flown into whatever place we did. I don’t remember where exactly some place really close to London, it’s not important. It was raining and it was fucking freezing outside. The whole taxi ride to Carter’s home, my dad seemed a bit nervous. 

My dad is a really big guy. You wouldn’t think anything in the whole world could make him nervous. He has dark brown skin, like Carter’s, piercing brown eyes, a bald head, so he looked like a buff evil science. There was something off about him, he kept looking over his shoulder like something or someone was following us. 

“Dad?” I said as we got off a highway. “What’s wrong? You look like someone shitted in your coffee.”

“No sign of them,” he muttered. Then he realized he spoken out loud instead of in his head. Genius, right? So he looked at me kind of startled. “Nothing, Sadie. Everything is fine and don’t curse. It’s not polite.”

“Polite can eat my ass.”

“Oh Sadie.” He sighed.

We were once again silent. No words going between us. Which was strange. Normally we talked about something. Anything. Even a simple gesture at the rain. We both weren’t really use to the rain. But we weren’t communicating at all. It was so weird.

Also his answer to my question kind of bothered me. You see, the thing is my dad is a really terrible liar. I always knew when he was lying or hiding something, but no amount of pestering would get the truth out of him. Trust me, I have pestered him for hours about what he got me for my birthday so I know from experience that pestering does not work with him. He was always trying to protect me through at the time I didn’t know from what. Sometimes when I drifted off into think land, I wondered if he had some dark secret in his past. It always seemed ridiculous, but hey what else am I to think about while I’m on a plane for hours. Well I mean I could think about whatever cute girl I had left behind in the last town I was in. I never dated but I have kissed a few girls in the last two-ish years. (Oh yeah. Back to my dad and Christmas Eve.) 

What also bugged me that night was that he was holding on to his workbag like he did when we were in danger. Like this one time gunmen stormed into our hotel in Cairo. I heard shots coming from the lobby and ran downstairs to check on my dad. By the time I got there, he was just calmly zipping up his workbag while three unconscious gunmen hung by their feet from the chandelier, their robes falling over their heads so you could see their boxer shorts. Which was a bit funny, I remember one of them had frog boxers, funny right? Dad claimed not to have witnessed anything, and in the end the police blamed a freak chandelier malfunction. I still think he beat them up even though he says he didn’t. 

Another time, we got caught in a riot in Paris. My dad found the nearest parked car, pushed me into the backseat, and told me to stay down. I pressed myself against the floorboards and held my breath. I could hear Dad in the driver’s seat, rummaging in his bag, mumbling something to himself while the mob yelled and destroyed things outside. A few minutes later he told me it was safe to get up. Every other car on the block had been overturned and set on fire. Our car had been freshly washed and polished, and several uh 20 euro notes had been tucked under the windshield wipers. It was weird.

I had actually started thinking of it as our lucky charm. 

Anyway, we went by some of the sites of London. I really don’t feel like listing them because honestly when you travel a lot, the cities all seem the same. You know, people are like, “Cool you travel all over! So lucky! I wish I could do that!” It’s not like we are tourists who go sightseeing or have a lot of money to travel in style. We’ve stayed in some pretty shit places and we hardly stay anywhere longer than a few days. Once we stayed in Cairo for two weeks because I had broken a leg, it was strange for me. But anywho most of the time it feels like we’re fugitives rather than tourists or whatever you would call someone going somewhere else for work. Is there even a word for that? 

I mean my dad’s work doesn’t seem dangerous, like at all. He gives boring lectures on boring topics about Egyptian magic or the Egyptian Underworld. Or something just as boring but almost always about Egyptians. Most people wouldn’t care about stuff like that. I don’t for the most part, but he does a lot for some reason. Now there’s another side to him. He’s always cautious, checking every hotel room before he lets me walk into it. He’ll dart into a dusty museum, while I wait outside eating some local desert, he’ll look at artifact and take some notes then rush out like he is afraid to get caught on the security cameras.

Once when I was younger, I think like twelve or something, we raced across the Charles de Gaulle airport to catch a last-minute flight, and Dad didn’t relax until the plane was off the ground, I asked him point blank what he was running from, and he looked at me like I’d just pulled the pin out of a grenade. For a second I was scared he might actually tell me the truth. Then he said, “Sadie, it’s nothing.” As if “nothing” were the most terrible thing in the world.

After that I was more vague in my questioning. 

My grandparents, the shitty Fausts, lived in a housing development right on the banks of the River Thames. It always seemed like a nice place but I never really went inside even when the Fausts asked me to come in. The taxi let us off at the curb, and my dad asked the driver to wait just a minute. The driver just nodded as my dad handed him a few bills. 

We were halfway up the walk when Dad froze. He turned around and looked behind us.

“What?” I asked.

Then I saw the man in the trench coat. He was across the street, leaning against a big tree. He was barrel shaped, with skin the color of roasted coffee. His coat and black pinstriped suit looked expensive. He had long braided hair and wore a black fedora pulled down low over his dark round glasses. He reminded me of a jazz musician, the kind my dad would always drag me to see in concert. Even though I couldn’t see his eyes, I got the impression he was watching us. He might’ve been an old friend or colleague of Dad’s. No matter where we went, Dad was always running into people he knew. It was annoying sometimes. But it did seem strange that the guy was waiting here, outside my grandparents’. And he didn’t look happy.

“Sadie go on ahead.” He said.

“But-

“Just go get Carter. I’ll meet you two back in the taxi, okay?” 

“...fine. I will go get the dork.” I sighed.

He crossed the street toward the man in the trench coat, which left me with two choices: follow my dad and see what was going on, or do what I was told.

I decided on the ‘good’ choice since we were already late to pick up Cater.

As I started to knock, Carter opened the door. He looked like a nerd, wearing a cardigan and a Young Justice shirt. (Yes Carter, I will forever call you a nerd and a dork.) 

Now most people don’t believe he’s my brother. I have much lighter skin than him and pass as white thanks to our mom who was white. Carter on the other, has our father’s skintone. I have brownish blonde hair and blue eyes; Carter has black hair and brown eyes. So yeah we look almost nothing alike. Not to mention, he has our dad’s height while I have our mother's. So my little brother was taller than me and honestly that was annoying.

“Where’s dad?” He asked.

“Talking to a person. Let’s go to the taxi.” I said.


	2. Speedos are a no

I GUESS WE'RE FUCKING EVEN CARTER! First, Walt and I rushed off to save your ass in London. Then, you and Walt rushed off to save my cute ass. And poor Walt gets hauled all over the world pulling us out of trouble. 

Bes was locked in a glowing cage. Zia was convinced we were enemies. Which really sucked because she was so hot like damn. My sword and wand were gone. I was holding a crook and flail that were stolen property, and two of the most powerful magicians in the world, Michel Desjardins aka Dickhead and Vlad the Asshole, were ready to arrest me, try me, and execute me—probably not in that order.

I backed up to the steps of Zia’s tomb, but there was no place to go. Red mud stretched in all directions, dotted with wreckage and dead fish. I couldn’t run or hide, which gave me two options: surrender, or fight.

Asshole’s eyes glittered. “Feel free to resist, Kane. Using deadly force would make my job so much easier.”

“Vladimir, stop,” Dickhead said wearily, leaning on his staff. “Sadie, don’t be foolish. Surrender now.”

Three months ago, Dickhead would’ve been thrilled to blast me to bits. Now he looked sad and tired, like my execution was an unpleasant necessity. Zia stood next to him. She glanced warily at Asshole, as if she could sense something e-v-i-l about the man.

If I could use that, and buy some time…

“What’s your plan, Vlad?” I asked. “You let us get away from St. Petersburg too easily. Almost like you want us to awaken Ra.”

The Russian laughed. “Is that why I followed you halfway across the world to stop you?”

He did his best to look snide, but a smile tugged at his lips, as if we were sharing an inside joke.

“You didn’t come to stop me,” I guessed. “You’re counting on us to find the scrolls for you and put them together. Do you need Ra to wake up in order to free Apophis?”

“Enough, Sadie.” Dickhead spoke in a non angry voice which surprised me. But Asshole looked angry enough for both of them. 

“That’s it, isn’t it?” I said. “Ma’at and Chaos are connected. To free Apophis, you have to wake Ra, but you want to control the summoning, make sure Ra comes back old and weak.”

Asshole's new staff burst into green flames. “Little girl, you have no idea what you are saying.” Oh I so wanted to punch him.

“Set teased you about a past mistake,” I remembered. “You tried to awaken Ra once before, didn’t you? Using what—only the one scroll you had? Is that how you burned your face?”

“Sadie!” Dickhead interrupted. “Vlad Menshikov is a hero of the House of Life. He tried to destroy that scroll to keep anyone else from using it. That’s how he was injured.”

For a moment I was too stunned to speak. “That…can’t be true.”

“You should do your homework, little girl.” Asshole fixed his fucked up eyes on me. “The Menshikovs are descended from the priests of Amun-Ra. You’ve heard of that temple?”

I tried to recall the stories my dad had told me. I knew Amun-Ra was another name for Ra, the sun god. And his temple…

“They pretty much had control over Egypt for a long ass time,” I remembered. “They opposed that one guy when he outlawed the old gods, maybe even killed him.”

“Indeed,” Asshole said. “My ancestors were champions of the gods! They are the ones who created the Book of Ra and hid its three sections, hoping that someday, a worthy magician would reawaken their sun god.” (Okay Carter I'll use their names)

I tried to wrap my mind around that. I could totally see Vlad Menshikov as an ancient bloodthirsty priest. “But if you’re descended from priests of Ra—”

“Why do I oppose the gods?” Menshikov glanced at the Chief Lector as if I’d asked a predictably stupid question. “Because the gods destroyed our civilization! By the time Egypt fell and Lord Iskandar banned the path of the gods, even my family had come to realize the truth. The old ways must be forbidden. Yes, I tried to destroy the scroll, to make up for the sins of my ancestors. Those who summon the gods must be wiped out.”

I shook my head. “I saw you summon Set. I heard you talk about freeing Apophis. Desjardins, Zia—this asshole is lying. He’s going to kill you both.”

Desjardins looked at me in a kind of daze. Amos had insisted the Chief Lector was smart, so how could he not understand the threat?

“No more,” Desjardins said. “Come peacefully, Sadie Kane, or be destroyed.”

I gave Zia one more pleading look. I could see the doubt in her eyes, but she wasn’t in any shape to help me. She’d just woken up from a three-month-long nightmare. She wanted to believe the House of Life was still her home and Desjardins and Menshikov were the good guys. She didn’t want to hear any more about Apophis. Poor beautiful girl.

I raised the crook and flail and smirked. “I’m not going peacefully.”

Menshikov nodded. “Then, destruction it is.”

He pointed his staff at me, and my instincts took over. I lashed out with the crook.

I was much too far away to reach him, but some invisible force ripped the staff out of Menshikov’s hand and sent it flying into the Nile. He held out his wand, but I slashed the air again, and Menshikov went flying. He landed on his back so hard, he made a mud angel. So awesome.

“Sadie!” Desjardins pushed Zia behind him. His own staff lit with purple fire. “You dare to use the weapons of Ra?”

I looked at my hands in amazement. I’d never felt so much power come to me so easily—as if I were meant to be a queen. In the back of my mind, I heard Horus’s voice, urging me on: This is your path. This is your birthright. 

I responded to him. Shut the fuck up dude. I'm busy. But alright I guess?

“You’re going to kill me anyway sooo,” I told Desjardins.

My body began to glow. I floated off the ground. For the first time since New Year’s, I was encased in the avatar of the hawk god—a falcon-headed warrior three times my normal size. In its hands were massive holographic replicas of the crook and flail. I hadn’t paid much attention to the flail, but it was a wicked pain-bringer—a wooden handle with three barbed chains, each topped by a spiky metal asterisk—like a combination whip and meat tenderizer. I took a swipe at the ground, and the falcon warrior mirrored my action. The glowing flail pulverized the stone steps of Zia’s tomb, sending blocks of limestone flying through the air. It was so badass.

Desjardins raised a shield to deflect the shards. Zia’s eyes widened. I knew I was probably freaking her out and convincing her I was the bad guy, but I had to protect her. I couldn’t let Menshikov take her away.

“Combat magic,” Desjardins said with disdain. “This is what the House of Life was like when we followed the path of the gods, Sadie Kane: magician fighting magician, backstabbing and duels between the different temples. Do you want those times to return?”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I said. “I don’t want to fight you, Desjardins, but Menshikov is evil and a traitor. Get out of here. Let me deal with him.”

Menshikov rose from the mud, smiling like he enjoyed getting thrown around. “Deal with me? How confident! By all means, Chief Lector, let the little girl try. I’ll be sure to pick up the pieces when I’m done.”

Desjardins started to say, “Vladimir, no. It’s not your place—”

But Menshikov didn’t wait. He stomped the ground with his foot, and the mud turned dry and white all around him. Twin lines of hardening earth snaked toward me. I wasn’t sure what they would do, but I knew I didn’t want them touching me. I smashed at them with my flail, taking out a section of mud large enough for a hot tub. The white lines just kept coming, bleaching their way down the pit and climbing the other side, racing toward me. I tried to move out of their way, but the warrior avatar wasn’t exactly speedy.

 

The lines of magic reached my feet. The slithered up the avatar’s legs until I was tangled to the waist. They squeezed against my shielding, draining my magic, and I heard Menshikov’s voice forcing its way into my mind.

Snake, the voice whispered. You are a slithering reptile.

I fought back my terror. Oh hell no. I’d been turned into an animal against my will once before, and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. This time, it was happening in slow motion. The combat avatar fought to maintain its form, but Menshikov’s magic was strong. The vines kept rising, covering my chest.

I swiped at Menshikov with my crook. The invisible force hooked him around the neck and lifted him off the ground.

“Do it!” he choked out. “Show me—your power—godling!”

I raised my flail. One good hit, and I could smash Vlad Menshikov like a bug.

“Won’t matter!” he gasped, clawing at his neck. “Spell will —defeat you anyway. Show us you’re—a murderer, Kane!”

I glanced at Zia’s terrified face, and I hesitated too long. The vines encircled my arms. The combat avatar crumpled to its knees, and I dropped Menshikov.

Pain wracked my body. My blood turned cold. The avatar’s limbs shrank, the hawk’s head slowly changing into the head of a serpent. I could feel my heart slowing, my vision darkening. The taste of venom filled my mouth.

Zia cried out. “Stop it! This is too much!”

“On the contrary,” Menshikov said, rubbing his chafed neck. “He deserves worse. Chief Lector, you saw how this boy threatened you. He wants the pharaoh’s throne. He must be destroyed.”

Zia tried to run to me, but Desjardins held her back.

“Discontinue the spell, Vladimir,” he said. “The girl can be contained in more humane ways.”

“Humane, my lord? She's barely human!”

The two magicians locked eyes. I don’t know what would’ve happened—but just then a portal opened under Bes’s cage.

I’ve seen plenty of portals, but none like this. The whirlpool opened level with the ground, sucking down a trampoline-size area of red sand, dead fish, old lumber, pottery shards, and one glowing fluorescent cage containing a dwarf god. As the cage entered the vortex, the bars broke into splinters of light. Bes unfroze, found himself halfway submerged in sand, and did some creative cursing. Then my brother and Walt shot straight up out of the portal, suspended horizontally, as if they were running toward the sky. When gravity took over, they waved their arms and fell back into the sand. They might’ve been pulled under except Bes grabbed them both and managed to haul them out of the whirlpool.

Bes dumped them on firm ground. Then he turned to Vlad Menshikov, planted his feet, and ripped off his Hawaiian shirt and shorts like they were made of tissue. His eyes blazed with anger. His Speedo was embroidered with the words Dwarf Pride, which was something I really didn’t need to see. But bravo for him for being proud of his ugly body.

Menshikov only had time to say, “How—”

“BOO!” yelled Bes.

The sound was like a huge explosion. The ground shook. The river rippled. My avatar collapsed, and Menshikov’s spell dissolved with it—the venom taste in my mouth subsiding, the pressure lifting so I could breathe again. Carter and Walt were already on the ground. Zia had quickly backed away. But Menshikov and Desjardins got a full blast of ugly right in their faces.

Their expressions turned to astonishment, and they disintegrated on the spot.

After a moment of shock, Zia gasped. “You killed them!”

“Nah.” Bes dusted off his hands. “Just scared ’em back home. They may be unconscious for a few hours while their brains try to process my magnificent physique, but they’ll live. More important—” He scowled at Carter and Walt. “You two had the nerve to anchor a portal on me? Do I look like a relic?”

Carter and Walt wisely didn’t answer that. They got to their feet, brushing off the sand.

“It wasn’t our idea!” Carter protested. “Ptah sent us here to help you.”

“Ptah?” I laughed. “Ptah, the god?”

“No, Ptah the date farmer. I’ll tell you later.”

“What’s wrong with your hair?” I asked. “It looks like a camel licked it.”

“Shut up.” Then he noticed Zia. “My god, is that her? The real Zia?”

Zia stumbled back, trying to light up her staff. “Get away!” The fire spluttered weakly.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Carter promised.

Zia’s legs shook. Her hands trembled. Then she did the only logical thing for someone who’d been through her kind of day after a three-month coma. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she passed out.

Bes grunted. “Strong girl. She held up under a full frontal BOO! Still…we’d better pick her up and get out of here. Desjardins won’t stay gone forever.”

“Carter,” I said, “did you get the scroll?”

He pulled all three scrolls out of his bag. Part of me was relieved. Part of me was frightened.

“We need to get to the Great Pyramid,” he said. “Please tell me you have a car.”

Not only did we have a car, we had a whole bunch of Bedouins. We returned their truck well after dark, but the Bedouins seemed happy to see us, even though we’d brought three extra people, one of them unconscious. Somehow Bes made a deal with them to drive us to Cairo. After a few minutes talking in their tent, he emerged wearing new robes. The Bedouins came out ripping the remains of his Hawaiian shirt into strips, which they carefully wrapped around their arms, their radio antenna, and their rearview mirror as good luck talismans.

We piled into the back of the truck. It was too crowded and noisy to talk much as we drove to Cairo. Bes told us to get some sleep while he kept watch. He promised he’d be nice to Zia if she woke up.

Carter and Walt went straight to sleep, but I stared at the stars for a while. I was painfully aware of Zia—the real Zia—sleeping fitfully right next to me, and the magic weapons of Ra, the crook and the flail, now stashed in my bag. My body was still buzzing from the battle. Menshikov’s spell had been broken, but I could still hear his voice in my head, trying to turn me into a cold-blooded reptile—sort of like him.

Finally, I managed to close my eyes. Without magical protection, my ba drifted as soon as I fell asleep.

I found myself in the Hall of Ages, in front of the pharaoh’s throne. Between the columns on either side, holographic images shimmered. Just as Carter had described, the edge of the magic curtain was turning from red to deep purple —indicating a new age. The images in purple were hard to make out, but I thought I saw two figures grappling in front of a burning chair.

“Yes,” said the voice of Horus. “The battle approaches.”

He appeared in a ripple of light, standing on the steps of the dais where the Chief Lector usually sat. He was in human form, a muscular young man with bronze skin and a shaved head. Jewels glinted on his leather battle armor, and his khopesh hung at his side. His eyes gleamed—one gold, one silver.

“How did you get here?” I asked. “Isn’t this place shielded against gods?”

“I’m not here, Sadie. You are. But we were once joined. I am an echo in your mind—the part of Horus that never left you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just listen. Your situation has changed. You stand on the threshold of greatness.”

He pointed at my chest. I looked down and realized I wasn’t in my usual ba form. Instead of a bird, I was a human, dressed like Horus in Egyptian armor. In my hands were the crook and flail.

“These aren’t mine,” I said. “They were buried with Zia.”

“They could be yours,” Horus said. “They are the symbols of the pharaoh—like staff and wand, only a hundred times more powerful. Even with no practice, you were able to channel their power. Imagine what we could do together.” He gestured to the empty throne. “You could unite the House of Life as its leader. We could crush our enemies.”

I won’t deny: part of me felt a thrill. Months ago, the idea of being a leader didn't fit me. But I’d spent three months teaching and turning our initiates into a team. I understood the threat we were facing more clearly, and I was beginning to understand how to channel the power of Horus without being overwhelmed. What if Horus was right, and I could lead the gods and magicians against Apophis? I liked the idea of crushing our enemies, getting back at the forces of Chaos that had turned our lives upside down.

Then I remembered the way Zia had looked at me when I was about to kill Vlad—like I was the monster. I remembered what Desjardins had said about the bad old days when magician fought magician. If Horus was an echo in my mind, maybe I was being affected by his desire to rule. I knew Horus well now. He was a good guy in many ways—brave, honorable, righteous. But he was also ambitious, greedy, jealous, and single-minded when it came to his goals. Very similar to me. And his biggest desire was to rule the gods. But maybe if I could control him.


	3. I'm honestly not the biggest fan of police

Hullo, I'm Carter Kane. Where did my sister leave off?

Okay, let me think, the explosion. The Rosetta Stone in a billion pieces. Fiery evil bloke. Dad boxed in a sarcophagus. Creepy Frenchman and Arab girl with the knife. (Sadie I'm not going to call her the hot Arab girl with the knife. Sadie, just no.) Us passing out.

So when I woke up, the police were rushing about as you might expect. They separated me from my sister. But they locked me in the curator’s office for ages. And yes, they used our bicycle chain to do it

I was shattered, of course. I’d just been knocked out by a fiery thing. I’d watched my dad get packed in a sarcophagus and shot through the floor. I tried to tell the police about all that, but did they care? No.

Worst of all: I had a lingering chill, as if someone was pushing ice-cold needles into the back of my neck. It had started when I looked at those blue glowing words Dad had drawn on the Rosetta Stone and I knew what they meant. Which seems a little unlikely even if I have read all of my dad's books.

After a very long time, a policewoman finally retrieved me from the curator’s office. She asked me no questions. She just trundled me into a police car and took me home. Even then, I wasn’t allowed to explain to Gran and Gramps. The policewoman just tossed me into my room and I waited. And waited.

I don’t like waiting.

I paced the floor. My room was nothing posh, just an attic space with a window and a bed and a desk. There wasn’t much to do. Muffin sniffed my legs and her tail puffed up like a bottlebrush. I suppose she doesn’t fancy the smell of museums. She hissed and disappeared under the bed.

“Thanks a lot,” I muttered.

I opened the door, but the policewoman was standing guard.

“The inspector will be with you in a moment,” she told me. “Please stay inside.”

I could see downstairs—just a glimpse of Gramps pacing the room, wringing his hands, while Sadie and a police inspector talked on the sofa. I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“Could I just use the loo?” I asked the nice officer.

“No.” She closed the door in my face. As if I might rig an explosion in the toilet. Honestly.

I looked at my bookshelf for anything to read. But nothing looked like I could reread it. 

I fiddled with the necklace Dad had given me. It was a tyet amulet. And a symbol of the Egyptian goddess, Isis.

Why on earth had Dad asked if I still had it? Of course I still had it. It was the only gift he’d ever given me. Well, apart from Muffin, and with the cat’s attitude, I’m not sure I would call her a proper gift.

Dad had left me at age six, after all. The necklace was my one link to him well besides his books. On good days I would stare at it and remember him fondly. On bad days (which weren't often) I would fling it across the room and stomp on it and curse him for not being around, which I found quite therapeutic. But in the end, I always put it back on.

At any rate, during the weirdness at the museum—and I’m not making this up—the necklace got hotter. I nearly took it off, but I couldn’t help wondering if it truly was protecting me somehow.

I’ll make things right, Dad had said, with that guilty look he often gives me.

 

What had he been thinking? I wanted to believe it had all been a bad dream: the glowing hieroglyphs, the snake staff, the sarcophagus. Things like that simply don’t happen. But I knew better. I couldn’t dream anything as horrifying as that fiery man’s face when he’d turned on us. “Soon, kid,” he’d told Sadie, as if he intended to track us down. Just the idea made my hands tremble. I also couldn’t help wondering about our stop at Cleopatra’s Needle, how Dad had insisted on seeing it, as if he were steeling his courage, as if what he did at the British Museum had something to do with my mum.

My eyes wandered across my room and fixed on my desk.

No, I thought. Not going to do it.

But I walked over and opened the drawer. I shoved aside a pile of report cards, lists of books I wanted to read, and few pictures of me and my mates Liz and Emma trying on ridiculous hats in Camden Market. And there at the bottom of it all was the picture of Mum.

Gran and Gramps have loads of pictures. They keep a shrine to Ruby in the hall cupboard—Mum’s childhood artwork, her O-level results, her graduation picture from university, her favorite jewelry. It’s quite mental. I was determined not to be like them, living in the past. I barely remembered Mum, after all, and nothing could change the fact she was dead.

 

But I did keep the one picture. It was of Mum and me at our house in Los Angeles, just after I was born. She stood out on the balcony, the Pacific Ocean behind her, holding a wrinkled pudgy lump of baby that would some day grow up to be yours truly. Mum looked so different from me, blonde hair and blue eyes. It looked a little strange for her to be holding me, with my dark skin a deep contrast to her light skin. Some people probably didn't think I was her son.

The photo fascinated me because I hardly remembered our lives together at all. But the main reason I’d kept the photo was because of the symbol on Mum’s T-shirt: one of those life symbols—an ankh.

My dead mother wearing the symbol for life. Nothing could’ve been sadder. But she smiled at the camera as if she knew a secret. As if my dad and she were sharing a private joke.

Something tugged at the back of my mind. That stocky man in the trench coat who’d been arguing with Dad across the street—he’d said something about the Per Ankh.

Had he meant ankh as in the symbol for life? But what about per? I couldn't remember what that word meant, through it sounded familiar.

I had an eerie feeling that if I saw the words Per Ankh written in hieroglyphics, I would know what they meant.

I put down the picture of Mum. I picked up a pencil and turned over one of my old homework papers. I wondered what would happen if I tried to draw the words Per Ankh. Would the right design just occur to me?

As I touched pencil to paper, my bedroom door opened. “Mr. Kane?”

I whirled and dropped the pencil.

A police inspector stood frowning in my doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Maths,” I said.

My ceiling was quite low, so the inspector had to stoop to come in. He wore a lint-colored suit that matched his gray hair and his ashen face. “Now then, Carter. I’m Chief Inspector Williams. Let’s have a chat, shall we? Sit down.”

I didn’t sit, and neither did he, which must’ve annoyed him. It’s hard to look in charge when you’re hunched over. 

“Tell me everything, please,” he said, “from the time your father came round to get you.”

“I already told the police at the museum.”

“Again, if you don’t mind.”

So I told him everything. Why not? His left eyebrow crept higher and higher as I told him the strange bits like the glowing letters and serpent staff.

“Well, Carter,” Inspector Williams said. “You’ve got quite an imagination.”

“I’m not lying, Inspector.”

“Now, Carter, I’m sure this is very hard on you. I understand you want to protect your father’s reputation. But he’s gone now—”

“You mean through the floor in a sarcophagus,” I insisted. “He’s not dead.”

Inspector Williams spread his hands. “Carter, I’m very sorry. But we must find out why he did this act of...well...”

“Act of what?”

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Your father destroyed priceless artifacts and apparently killed himself in the process. We’d very much like to know why.”

I stared at him. “Are you saying my father’s a terrorist? Are you mad?”

“We’ve made calls to some of your father’s associates. I understand his behavior had become erratic since your mother’s death. He’d become withdrawn and obsessive in his studies, spending more and more time in Egypt—”

“He’s a Egyptologist! You should be looking for him, not asking stupid questions!” I cried. Dad couldn't be a bloody terrorist.

“Carter,” he said, and I could hear in his voice that he was resisting the urge to strangle me. This happened a lot with certain types of adults especially if I got upset. “There are extremist groups in Egypt that object to Egyptian artifacts being kept in other countries’ museums. These people might have approached your father. Perhaps in his state, your father became an easy target for them. If you’ve heard him mention any names—”

I stormed past him to the window. I was so angry I could hardly think. I refused to believe Dad was dead. No, no, no. And a terrorist? Please. Why did adults have to be so thick? They always say “tell the truth,” and when you do, they don’t believe you. What’s the point?

I stared down at the dark street. Suddenly that cold tingly feeling got worse than ever. I focused on the dead tree where I’d met Dad earlier. Standing there now, in the dim light of a streetlamp, looking up at me, was the pudgy bloke in the black trench coat and the round glasses and the fedora—the man Dad had called Amos.

I suppose I should’ve felt threatened by an odd man staring up at me in the dark of night. But his expression was full of concern. And he looked so familiar. It was driving me mad that I couldn’t remember why.

Behind me, the inspector cleared his throat. “Carter, we just want to know what really went down.”

I turned from the window. “I already told you what I saw.”

The inspector’s eyebrow started to creep up again. “Is there anyway your sister was involved in the attack?”

I frowned. “Sadie? No, and it wasn't an attack.” 

“So you are determined to protect her as well. You consider her a proper sister, do you?”

I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to smack his face, which was not something I would normally do. “What’s that supposed to mean? Because I don’t look like her?”

The inspector blinked. “I only meant—”

“I know what you meant. Of course she’s my sister!”

Inspector Williams held up his hands apologetically, but I was still seething. I hated it when people assumed we weren’t related, or looked at my father askance when he said the three of us were a family—like we’d done something wrong. Dr. Martin at the museum. Inspector Williams. It happened every time Dad and Sadie and I were together. Every bloody time.

“I’m sorry, Carter,” the inspector said. “I only want to make sure we separate the innocent from the guilty. It will go much easier for everyone if you cooperate. Any information. Anything your father said. People he might’ve mentioned.”

“Amos,” I blurted out, just to see his reaction. “He met a man named Amos.”

Inspector Williams sighed. “Carter, he couldn’t have done. Surely you know that. We spoke with Amos not one hour ago, on the phone from his home in New York.”

“He isn’t in New York!” I insisted. “He’s right—”

I glanced out the window and Amos was gone.

“That’s not possible,” I said.

“Exactly,” the inspector said.

“But he was here!” I exclaimed. “Who is he? One of Dad’s colleagues? How did you know to call him?”

“Really, Carter. This acting must stop.”

“Acting?”

The inspector studied me for a moment, then set his jaw as if he’d made a decision. “We’ve already had the truth from Sadie. I didn’t want to upset you, but she told us everything. She understands there’s no point protecting your father now. You might as well help us, and there will be no charges against you.”

“You shouldn’t lie to children!” I yelled, hoping my voice carried all the way downstairs. “Sadie would never say a word against Dad, and neither will I!” I could not believe I just yelled at him. I just yelled at an inspector.

He crossed his arms. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Carter. I’m afraid it’s time we went downstairs...to discuss consequences with your grandparents.”


	4. Author note

Waddup idk what to do with this fic but who knows maybe I'll update some day lol


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